


like a winter hath my absence been

by kaffas (hoopoe)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Canon Trans Character, Character Study, Dorian and Bull do meet eventually I PROMISE, Dreams and Nightmares, Fate & Destiny, I just needed platonic Bull and Krem sharing a bed first, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Qunari Culture and Customs, Qunlat (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoopoe/pseuds/kaffas
Summary: "'No, darling, you are not Hissrad. Not anymore.'It is anotherkaar-hissera,another dream that has yet to pass, but it leaves the Iron Bull wide awake, his breath coming in quick pants as theasala-taarthreatens behind his ribs. It feels likesaar-hissra.It feels like the aftermath of a nightmare.A man's voice, sighing intimately, ardently. The shape of those words around a Tevinter accent."The Iron Bull joins the Inquisition.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Lace Harding/Sera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic





	like a winter hath my absence been

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine this, if you will: You did all of your formative academic work on proto-Christian heretics and cults. You pick up a video game for the first time in seven years, and that game is Dragon Age: Inquisition.
> 
> Anyway, here’s my love letter to the Iron Bull. I hope it isn't entirely shit. I’m working with a lot of Qunlat here, for which the conlang is woefully underdeveloped. ~~Goddamnit Bioware give me more Qunlat morphology you cowards~~ As a linguist, I did my best with what examples I was provided. 
> 
> Meanings of the words should be clear enough from context, but a full glossary is in the endnotes. Takes place before and during In Hushed Whispers.

When the Iron Bull arrives at Haven, he dreams in red.

No, _dream_ isn't quite the right word. _Dream_ , in Trade, lacks the nuance of it. The Iron Bull sinks into a _saar-hissra_ , saturated in a sick red glow, feeling himself grow thin, his skin taut, his insides brittle. He wakes drenched in sweat, heart pounding, an hour early for morning drills with the Chargers.

On the other side of their shared room, Krem sleeps on, serene and cherubic. For the first year after they left the Bleeders, Krem hadn't slept with his face to the Iron Bull. It's a protective gesture, now, born of nights like this. Louder, maybe, more vivid. Krem's face in his sleep sends a message to the Iron Bull: _I've got you, boss. Nothing's going to get past me._

The _saar-hissra_ lingers in the Iron Bull's mind as he closes his remaining eye, determined to catch a few more moments of rest. _Where was Krem_ , he wonders, _in that red-bathed world?_

***

Trevelyan asks endless questions. It would be endearing, the barrage of curiosity and diplomatic spirit, if the Iron Bull were a diplomat.

He is not a diplomat. Throughout the entire conversation, and the next, and the next, he scans Trevelyan's hopelessly earnest face for a hint of motive. He finds none except genuine interest in the Iron Bull, in life as _Qunari_. Trevelyan takes the Iron Bull as representative of _Qunari_ , the way most _bas_ seem to, and the Iron Bull does nothing to dispel this notion. He is _hissrad_ , and he weaves whatever pretty lie will work.

The Iron Bull sits at a table in the corner of the Singing Maiden and writes:

_"Trevelyan spends his days gathering goodwill toward the Inquisition. He is accompanied by a Seeker of Truth, a Deshyr of the dwarven Merchants' Guild, and an elven hedge witch with no explicit training. Trevelyan does not act as_ basvaraad _, and does not look upon the_ bas-saarebas _with fear. He desires what all men desire and upon which they never agree: peace over the world, and Trevelyan wishes the Inquisition to be the force of that peace. He does not understand that peace cannot be won, through diplomacy or through force. The Qun tells us,_ Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun. _"_

***

The Iron Bull dreams.

_Kaar-hissera_ , this time. It has not come to pass. In Haven, the smells of dirt and sweat and metal mingle with the cool ozone smell of snow. Wood smoke and wet stone and the earthy scent of Fereldan beer. Honest, workaday smells.

In the Iron Bull's dream, he meets someone. He does not remember them, when he wakes. He stands, stooped under the low ceiling, and carefully leaves the room. Krem does not stir. The Iron Bull exits the inn to gaze with his single eye up at the stars. He counts the three straight stars in the hilt of Iudex and names each of them with a scent. _Red wine, cloves, citrus._

Trevelyan asked him about Seheron, yesterday. The Iron Bull remembers Seheron in fragments, _asala-taar-ast_. Two years, they told him, and no more.

He is the Iron Bull now, but he was Ashkaari, once. _One who thinks_. After Seheron, when he was Hissrad, _one who lies_ , he no longer wanted to be _one who_. The Iron Bull is a _thing_ , now, and goes where he is bidden.

The Iron Bull writes: _"The elf is more than he appears. He has deep knowledge of the Qun, and holds nothing but scorn for all_ Qunari _and_ viddathari _. Trevelyan keeps him close, as he is the only mage of consequence at Haven. The Nightingale tells of a hushed alliance with the rebel mages at Redcliffe. It is unclear whether Trevelyan instigated this alliance, or whether the alliance will result in the elf's replacement with a more tractable model."_

***

The 'Vints called themselves _Venatori_. Hunters.

The Chargers had handled them easily enough, before Trevelyan and his party rushed in to their rescue. Grim and Rocky took a few scrapes, and Stitches patched them up as they sat on a sea-soaked log, Rocky bitching endlessly and Grim making aborted noises of agreement.

Each of the Chargers had a nickname. The word Krem used was _cognomen_ , a Tevene word. They traded woes about words without translation, and Krem explained _nicknames_ , and the Iron Bull knew _cognomina_ , so they were speaking a common language. Not _the_ Common language, not perfectly, because there were no names under the Qun. Only what the 'Vints called _cognomina_ and the rest called _nicknames_.

So, each of the Chargers had a nickname, because, to the Iron Bull, each of them had a place. _Asit tal-eb_. Everything has a place under the Qun, and every one of his men has a place under the Iron Bull.

He fights with them, most comfortable in the van, and Krem fights at his left. It calms the _asala-taar_ , as if Krem were always meant to be there. Krem, fighting at the side blinded as Bull defended Krem. _Asit tal-eb_.

The Iron Bull and his Chargers left the Storm Coast after their skirmish with the Venatori. Trevelyan, visibly awestruck, invited them all back to Haven, and there they went, mingling with the troops there under Cullen Rutherford.

(The Iron Bull writes: _"Commander Rutherford is, to all appearances, a decent, steadfast Fereldan. He is a former Templar, and he stinks of stress-sweat and lyrium. He is a competent leader, but plagued by doubt. He knows that hesitation is death, and wonders if Trevelyan would be better served by a replacement."_ )

Trevelyan travels with Solas, Varric, and Cassandra to Redcliffe, where Josephine has taken pains to arrange a meeting with Grand Enchanter Fiona. The Iron Bull knows of Fiona through Sister Nightingale, of her past as a slave and a Grey Warden, and he knows that the meeting is suspect. The Iron Bull was asked to stay behind in case of a Templar incursion in Trevelyan's absence. The meeting at Val Royeaux had not, according to Red, gone well.

There are no Templars. At least, no Templars not accounted for. Josephine sends the Chargers to clear out bandits and gather raw materials for requisition, the former of which delights Grim, Rocky, and Skinner, and the latter of which suits Dalish and Stitches. The Iron Bull helps Rocky distinguish elfroot from bull-nettle between running off stray wolves, and Krem turns an admirable shade of red as he pries iron ore from the cliffs surrounding Haven.

At night, most of the Chargers sleep in a pile against the cold of the Frostbacks, sharing a single cramped tent by choice. Krem and the Iron Bull share another, by unspoken agreement. Formally, it is hierarchy, the captain and his lieutenant.

Informally, the Iron Bull stakes the tent doors to the ground for privacy as Krem doffs first his armor, then his shirt and long-john top, and finally the strips of linen binding his chest. His skin is chapped and red, livid with long hours of wear. He turns his back to the Iron Bull, who rubs chamomile into the raw skin there with a light, uneven-fingered touch as Krem groans in relief and hisses in discomfort.

Krem takes the chamomile from the Iron Bull and does his front, mutters, "Thanks, Chief." The Iron Bull grunts in reply, because their nightly ritual has repeated often enough that it does not bear thanks.

When Krem slides into their shared bedroll to muster what warmth they have between them, he shivers in only his long underwear, and he is so small in the Iron Bull's arms. The Iron Bull presses him close ("Chief, you're smothering me"), pulls the blankets tight ("Enough of that, you snuggly, poky Qunari bastard"), and thinks, not for the first time, that he would protect this man beyond the limit of his ability ("Fuckin'...goodnight, Chief. Warm-arse horned motherfucker").

***

On the way back to Haven, the Iron Bull dreams of salt.

It is another _kaar-hissera_ , a hopeful dream, and the taste of salt on skin is not novel to the Iron Bull. The Iron Bull dreams of pressing his lips to cheeks wet with tears, of feeling tiny grains of kohl on his tongue as he kisses soaked eyelashes. He dreams of giving comfort, and feels for the moment like it is his purpose. A calling. To give comfort is his place, and he is grateful.

He wakes content, Krem's breath whistling quietly against his shoulder. As the Iron Bull shifts slightly, Krem rouses a bit, slurring, "Mmm _boss_ , stop wiggling." The Iron Bull goes obediently still, adjusting the blankets overtop of them.

The Iron Bull breathes deeply, closes his single eye, and rides the warmth of Krem's body and the comfort of the _kaar-hissera_ all the way back to dreamless sleep.

***

The mages are being held hostage by Magister Gereon Alexius. "Of course they are," the Iron Bull replies when Leliana explains the situation. 

As her ravens squawk overhead, the better for their conversation to go unnoticed, she entreats the Iron Bull to cajole his way into Trevelyan's distraction party. "You know Tevinter better than most here," she reasons, "and you have a certain... _flair_ , that Trevelyan will need. I am also, admittedly, not afraid for your survival."

"Compliments from you _and_ I get to kill 'Vints? I didn't know it was a _holiday,_ Red."

"Do not call me Red."

"Sure." He passes over his latest report for her perusal. "Any other news from Redcliffe?"

Leliana hums as she hands back the parchment. "You may want to add this. It could be a complicating factor." She produces a raven-feather quill and deep-purple ink from, like as not, thin air. The Iron Bull braces the parchment against a railing, raising his eyebrow to signal that he is ready to take dictation.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan met a Tevinter mage in Redcliffe," Leliana begins, and amends, "other than Magister Alexius. The mage called himself Dorian Pavus." The name registers as an _altus_ house in Tevinter, but raises no other flags for the Iron Bull. "He purports to be a former protégé of Magister Alexius. They were working on magic to bend time and space, and...they may have succeeded." Leliana's voice grows less steady, almost imperceptibly. "Grand Enchanter Fiona had no recollection of meeting the Inquisitor in Val Royeaux."

"Pavus, huh? P-a-v-u-s?" the Iron Bull asks, pivoting their topic to avoid the source of Leliana's discomfort.

"Pavus," Leliana confirms. "The head of house is Magister Halward Pavus. He is married to Aquinea of House Thalrassian, and he is Dorian Pavus's father. He was not present at Redcliffe."

"That's where I'd heard the name," the Iron Bull realizes aloud. "Had to memorize the Magisterium every revision cycle." The Iron Bull does not add, _when I was on Seheron._

"The entire Magisterium?" Leliana wonders, and the Iron Bull shrugs. "They revise the list of magisters every two years."

"They don't shift that much," the Iron Bull hedges, which is mostly true. The Magisterium changes only when a magister falls to death or disgrace. In one recent case, the Iron Bull had heard, a magister fell to possession, but his source was dubious.

Leliana concedes and leaves him to finish his writing accompanied by one of her ravens. "Her name is Étoile, and she is very fast," Leliana promises before sauntering out. The Iron Bull watches her go and thinks wistfully of Qunari _tamassran_. He has never met a _bas_ so suited to a role she could not play.

***

"You going to fuck everything that's got ladybits in Haven?" Sera laments somewhere between the Crossroads and Redcliffe. "Save some for the rest of us, cunt."

Sera is a self-described "non-elf" that Trevelyan brought back from Val Royeaux, and she has the honor of surpassing Krem as the shortest being to ever call the Iron Bull "cunt."

Her screeching laughter when the Iron Bull informs her of this reminds him, in an odd way, of Dalish. Sera is frank and upfront with her opinions in a way few are in Haven. She is incapable of deception in a different way from Trevelyan; where Trevelyan _can't_ lie, Sera _won't_.

(The Bull writes: _"Sera is the former Red Jenny of Val Royeaux. She brings with her a network of rogues who defy the authority of society's upper class. This behavior is not only tolerated, but encouraged by Trevelyan, who both is and associates with members of this upper class. She was raised human and Andrastian. She does not associate herself with Solas. She does not pose a threat."_ )

The Iron Bull lets Sera win at wrestling, falls over obligingly when she tackles him from a well-placed tree, and regales her with tales of the women he's had. She responds with her best pranks and battle tactics, the latter of which are mostly useless, but she bounces happily as she paints a picture of the Iron Bull shouting absurd war cries. It will not harm the Qun to listen. To be Ben-Hassrath is, in some part, to listen.

He falls asleep to the sound of Lace Harding flirting clumsily with Sera at the campfire, and dreams again.

***

_"No, darling, you are not Hissrad. Not anymore."_

It is another _kaar-hissera_ , another dream that has yet to pass, but it leaves the Iron Bull wide awake, his breath coming in quick pants as the _asala-taar_ threatens behind his ribs. It feels like _saar-hissra_. It feels like the aftermath of a nightmare.

A man's voice, sighing intimately, ardently. The shape of those words around a Tevinter accent.

The Iron Bull does not sleep again until they reach Redcliffe. He buys his first drink at the Gull and Lantern, and Harding buys his second, and once Sera absconds with Harding, the bartender lets the Iron Bull know in no uncertain terms that she expects a tip.

He gives it—and more—gladly, buries his face between her legs and his hands in generous curves. Over and over he makes her come, until the dream fades into the taste of her, the feeling of red curls against his nose, her pleas for more as she rides his cock. Her name is Enide, and she smells of nothing but sweat and sex and floral perfume. She does not sigh, and her cheeks do not taste of tears.

***

As they walk into Redcliffe Castle, the Iron Bull repeats the cast of characters in his head.

_Gereon Alexius_ Tevinter. Magister. Venatori.

_Felix Alexius_. Tevinter. Magister's kid.

_Dorian Pavus_. Tevinter. _Altus_. Alexius's student.

Each of them with their own agenda. Alexius's is clear to the Iron Bull, the way a courtyard is clear through a clean window: He knows, but does not understand, the love of a parent for a child. The closest he has is his _tamassran_ , and she would not move time itself for him. He would hate her for it, if she did.

The agendas of Felix Alexius and Dorian Pavus, Leliana tells him before she splits off with her spies, are aligned. Gereon Alexius follows Corypheus. His son and the mage wish to stop him.

Trevelyan throws open the doors like he owns the place, and Sera clambers behind him muttering a string of curses under her breath. The castle is heavy with magic, and Sera feels it as the Iron Bull does, lurking malevolently in the stone. It settles over his skin like humidity, thickening the air. He rolls his shoulders against the tightness in his neck and back.

A group of soldiers and servants stops them at the base of a staircase, and they order Trevelyan to leave Sera and the Iron Bull behind. "The magister's invitation was for Master Trevelyan alone," a servant protests.

Trevelyan refuses, and no one in the room has the power to object.

The guards escorting Trevelyan, Sera, and the Iron Bull to Redcliffe's throne room are Venatori, by their armor. The Iron Bull counts them as he walks: eight in total, though only two show themselves. They move stiffly. Their eyes do not leave the Iron Bull. One guard stumbles over a cobblestone, and the Iron Bull hears his quick intake of breath.

In the throne room, the magic grows thicker. Gereon Alexius sits on a dais, and his son stands at nervous attention on his right. At once, the Iron Bull smells the Blight on him, sees the pallor of creeping sickness under his skin. Felix Alexius is dying. His father believes Corypheus will save him. Gereon Alexius does not understand, but Felix does: _Maaras shokra_. There is nothing in Felix to struggle against.

Trevelyan steps forward to meet Grand Enchanter Fiona and begins to speak with Gereon Alexius.

The Iron Bull fixes his gaze on Felix Alexius, and his vision fills with red. Tainted lyrium. _The_ saar-hissra _drenches his world in a sick red glow. The Iron Bull grows thin, his skin taut, his insides brittle._ He clenches his teeth, masters himself.

The Iron Bull is in Redcliffe's throne room, and Felix Alexius reveals his betrayal of his father. The Iron Bull is stronger than any _saar-hissra_. He plants himself like a tree and stands still, tilting his chin up as Gereon Alexius berates Trevelyan. _You were a mistake. You meddle with forces you cannot begin to understand._

Dorian Pavus sweeps in, stopping at Trevelyan's side.

_Red wine, cloves, citrus_. Billowing robes and a sharp voice, carving criticisms in that Tevinter accent. The Iron Bull _knows_ Dorian Pavus, knows the shape of his voice around—

_"No, darling, you are not Hissrad. Not anymore."_

Shouts. A flash of green. Trevelyan is gone, Dorian Pavus is gone, and the Iron Bull's heart races. He is at Redcliffe and he is on Seheron, and he is standing still and charging forward as his men fall around him, and in some unknowable place that feels like the _saar-hissra_ , the Iron Bull falls, too.

_He stands. He hears a staff clatter to the floor. He hears Dorian Pavus swear a heartfelt_ fuck _,_ _curses flying around them as the_ asala-taar _takes him. "_ Fasta vass _, we don't have time for this!" There is only_ 'Vint _and_ not 'Vint _, and the Iron Bull goes for the weakling._

_"_ Felix! _"_

_Dorian Pavus whirls on the Iron Bull, his bare hands outstretched as power courses through him, and the Iron Bull is suddenly flying. He hits a column. Stone cracks at his back, and dull pain races up his spine. Dorian Pavus stalks toward him, left hand clawed in the air, trapping the Iron Bull against the column. With his right hand, Dorian Pavus traces a sigil, and the sounds of the battle around them fade, its motion slowing. Sera's swift arrows arc gracefully through the air, fletching rippling at their ends._

_For a moment, the Iron Bull_ fears _Dorian Pavus, this mage who wields power the way the Iron Bull wields an axe, a tool one moment and a weapon the next. Dorian Pavus looks up at the Iron Bull and narrows his kohl-lined eyes._

_"Where are you right now, I wonder?" he asks, and the Iron Bull cannot find his voice to answer._

A second flash of green.

Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus appear before them again. The Iron Bull stands in the throne room at Redcliffe. He catches Pavus's eye, presses his lips together as Dorian gives him a tight nod.

Sera scuttles closer to the Iron Bull, and he tucks her behind him, feels her small fingers curl under his belt, grounding herself. Her heart beats faster than his own.

Trevelyan takes Gereon Alexius into custody. They depart the castle with a retinue of newly-liberated mages, and Dorian Pavus remains with Felix Alexius, their heads bowed together as they whisper.

***

When he returns to Haven, Stitches takes one look at the Iron Bull and calls Krem, who ushers the Iron Bull to their room and pushes him forcefully down onto his bed.

"I didn't know it was like _that_ , Krem de la Crème, but I can work with—"

"Sleep, Chief. You're not fooling us. You're no use when you're all twitchy."

"Twitchy?"

"Never known you to be scared of the pretty ones. Pavus, is it?"

"The pretty ones are the most dangerous," the Iron Bull growls as Krem sets about removing brace, harness, eyepatch. The Iron Bull lets Krem heft his heavy limbs with little grunts of effort, chuckling under his breath as Krem aims a kick at his hand, dangling off the mattress.

"Pavus is definitely pretty, if you like swaggering _altus_ fops. Haven't seen what he can do, personally, but it's got you clenched."

_Dorian Pavus could kill me easily_ , the Iron Bull thinks, _and he could raise my corpse to come after you. In the hold of a demon, he could raze the Inquisition to the ground and build an army of the dead. He is beautiful and he is dangerous._

Aloud, he says, "I don't think any of us have seen what he can really do. You 'Vints are good at keeping secrets."

"Aye, that we are, Boss," Krem agrees flippantly, arranging the Iron Bull's effects within easy reach. "No need to get twitchy about it, though. Pavus can't get you here, and you need to sleep."

Downstairs, in the pub, the rest of the Chargers raise a rowdy toast to Varric's latest authorial achievement. The Iron Bull would swear he hears Cassandra's Nevarran accent in the din, but before he can think much further on it, he closes his eye and succumbs to sleep for the first time since Redcliffe.

***

In the dream, the Iron Bull knows he is _tal-vashoth_. He fears life without the Qun the same way he feared himself on Seheron, but there is no reeducation for _tal-vashoth_. He is not _Hissrad_. He is not _Ashkaari_ , either. He is only the Iron Bull, and he does not know what this means. The words still comfort him. _Asit tal-eb._ They are not his, anymore. Many of the Qun's words wish suffering upon him. _Asit tal-eb_ , it remains. _This is how things are meant to be._

In the dream, the Iron Bull opens his eye, and sees a dragon-tooth necklace against Dorian Pavus's bare chest.

_Kadan. Asit tal-eb._

**Author's Note:**

> Full glossary, as promised. Asterisks (*) indicate that I made up a word. 
> 
> **Asala-taar:** PTSD, which Bull has from Seheron. Literally, "soul-sickness."  
>  **Asala-taar-ast*:** A post-traumatic nightmare or sleep paralysis episode. Literally, "a rising of soul-sickness."  
>  **Asit tal-eb:** Literally, "it is to be" or "the way it is meant to be." The kind of...fatalist philosophy of the Qun, that things are the way they are meant to be.  
>  **Bas:** Just someone who isn’t of the Qunari race and doesn’t ascribe to the Qun.  
>  **Bas-saarebas:** Non-Qunari (as in, neither the horned race nor the code) mage.  
>  **Basvaraad:** Keeper of bas; a term for someone who makes sure mages (bas-saarebas) don’t fuck anything up.  
>  **Hissrad:** Weaver of lies.  
>  **Kaar-hissera*:** A good dream which takes place in the future. Literally, "navigation of hope."  
>  **Kaar-taashath*:** A good dream which takes place in the present. Literally, "navigation of calm."  
>  **Kadan:** Literally, "where the heart lies;" friend. An all-purpose word for a "person one cares about," including colleagues, friends and loved ones.  
>  **Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun:** Bull says this in the game. It’s a general Qunari comfort phrase from their prayers for the dead. "Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun."  
>  **Qunari:** Someone of the Qunari race that ascribes to the Qun, a religio-philosophical code.  
>  **Saar-hissra*:** A nightmare. Literally, "dangerous illusion."  
>  **Viddathari:** Non-Qunari (race) who convert to the Qun (code).
> 
> Bonus Tevene: 
> 
> **Cognomen:** Just a Latin word. It's like an epithet you call someone, e.g. Caesar, Brutus, Cicero. Fact: Tevene is weirdly often based on Latin and Italian. Venatori is from Latin _venator_ , "hunter," which comes into Italian as _venatori_ , "hunting" (like a "hunting dog").
> 
> If you liked this, please do leave me a comment! They make my day, especially on my first fic in a fandom~
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ bas-saarebas.


End file.
